Slugs avoid the slow lane

Published 5:30 am, Tuesday, July 3, 2007

Just after 8 a.m. I rolled up to the curb, approaching an eager-eyed line of hitchhikers who leer at my dusty, dented Honda Civic like it's a showroom Corvette awaiting a test drive. These aren't your typical hitchhikers. They carry laptops. They wear neckties, pink suits with heels. They have iPod headphone cords sprouting from their ears.

And, in a few Houston suburbs, they're a precious commodity. Instead of offering their thumbs, they offer their bums, in your car seat, so you can achieve the "high occupancy" that lets you breeze down the Interstate 10 HOV in rush-hour traffic.

This freeway phenomenon has many names: casual carpooling, random ride-sharing or, in Washington, D.C., which has the biggest system, slugging. The term originated from bus drivers who pulled up to crowded bus stops only to discover commuters awaiting rogue carpools. These weren't real bus riders; they were fake ones, like "slug" coins.

Drivers who picked up slugs became known as "body-snatchers." Slugging began more than 30 years ago, but remains rare, occurring in two other major cities: San Francisco and Houston, according to Mark Burris, an assistant professor at Texas A&M University who co-published a report on slugging.

Burris estimates there are about 500-600 slugs in the Houston area, concentrated in three park-and-rides along I-10 and U.S. 290, where congestion is heavy and HOV lanes require more riders during peak hours. It's legal but it isn't sanctioned by Metro.

Saving time and money

I entered Kingsland Park-and-Ride in Katy last week, my first time as a body-snatcher.

Brian Wilson, a 38-year-old software engineer, gladly accepted the ride, and thus began my version of carpooling confessions.

"Why do you do it?" I asked.

The shy, soft-spoken engineer said that, at first, he cringed at the idea: "My mama always said 'don't get in cars with strangers,' " he said. But his boss suggested he try it, and the time and cost savings made him a quick convert.

With five children and a stay-at-home wife, Wilson said he can't afford gas costs and downtown parking fees. Even the bus, at $7 round trip, was burdensome. "That's lunch," he said. Now he just takes the bus home.

Six months of slugging has helped Wilson in ways he never expected. The constant exposure to new people and daily small-talk has nudged the introverted engineer out of his shell. His wife is thrilled about his newfound interpersonal communication skills.

Next morning, I returned to Kingsland, as a slug, joining a group of professionals, of varied ages, diverse backgrounds, who inched past a row of newspaper stands. Two-by-two, they boarded a stream of SUVs, minivans and sedans, many of which had become familiar.

There's a certain etiquette involved. The line is sacred: Cutting is prohibited. Drivers are masters of their domain: Slugs shouldn't speak unless spoken to by the driver, who also controls the temperature, radio, and whether coffee is allowed.

Seasoned slugs are aware that certain body-snatchers — the ones who drive aggressively, blare rap music, blab on cell phones or tune into shock jocks like Howard Stern — are to be avoided.

Aware there are risks

Slugging isn't for everyone. Bus riders said Metro is more comfortable, time-controlled. Some blamed slugs for flooding buses back to Katy in the evenings, leading to overcrowding. Many slugs say they have friends who swear they'd never do it.

"It takes courage," said a 56-year-old Texas Medical Center pediatric nurse who watched the slug line for six months before crossing over from the bus.

She got off to a rocky start, though: The pickup driver who gave her a lift the first day told her a few minutes into the ride they weren't going downtown.

"My heart just fell," she said. "And, of course, he was laughing. It was a joke. It was a poor joke."

Although the nurse said she feels safe, she wouldn't give her name for fear of her family or the people at work finding out.

"I have a grown daughter and I would kill her if she did this," she said.

Back in the slug line, it was my turn. A woman in a silver car held up two fingers and I slid into a back seat that resembled my own: cluttered with paper and half-drunk Diet Coke bottles.

The driver was the silent type; we uttered nary a
word as we headed to the highway. The blinker seemed loud. I was beginning to feel awkward until a voice on the radio warned of a backup on Katy Freeway.

Not for us, I thought. As traffic grew sluggish, we slugs in the HOV gleefully glided past.